


Night Terrors

by grace_of_baal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will takes care of Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace_of_baal/pseuds/grace_of_baal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal had never told Will about his night terrors. Will looks after Hannibal, who isn't in the best shape following the events of the cliffside.</p><p>  <i>“I've lost everything once already, Will,” said Hannibal. “I… I fear, on occasion, that events will repeat themselves.”</i><br/><i>“Well, that's what it's like to love, isn't it,” replied Will, quiet. “You’re just going to have to take the risk.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> I've thought a lot about post-WOTL, so I wanted to write a little thing. Not much plot, per se - this is more of a snapshot in time, I guess. Details and logistics were kept intentionally vague, because I'm not confident I can offer anything different or better from the hundreds of other post-finale fics out there. Just Hannibal and Will, nothing fancy.

When something smacked into his perforated cheek with startling force, Will was more annoyed than anything else, understandably - sleep didn't come easily to him and he had finally managed to drift off. It took several moments for Will to register the confusion anxiety he should be feeling; he jolted upright in the bed, immediately regretting it as various parts of his body were set aflame. He let out a groan, exhaling loudly through his nose at the same time. His cheek was stinging viciously, and mistakenly Will had let his face twist into a grimace, only worsening the sensation. After sitting dazedly for several seconds, Will felt the mattress shift under him, the bedsprings creaking ominously. He hastily groped for the bedside lamp, feeling the strain he was putting into his chest wound.

The light flickered on to reveal the man with whom Will was sharing his life, and more recently, his space and bed - Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal Lecter, who had been spending most of his days in a fevered limbo, somewhere between the realms of the living and the dead. Will stared, dumbfounded, watching Hannibal thrash in his sheets like they were the waves of the Atlantic, drowning him. His eyes were tightly shut, and Will instantly knew what this meant - something that he had experienced one too many times, but it was alien to be witnessing it from where he was now, instead of him being the one being swallowed up by his demons.

Will spurred himself into action, the realization sluggishly dawning on him. Hannibal needed to be woken up, this instant. “Hannibal!” Will's throat was bone-dry from disuse. When was the last time he had spoken out loud? Grinding his teeth against the pain clawing at his stab wounds, he tried to hold Hannibal down by the shoulder. He was bafflingly strong in his unconsciousness and sickness. And now, he had begun moaning, the low noise hauntingly primal, bestial. It brought to Will’s mind what he sometimes used to hear in the woods encircling his home in Wolf Trap - the cries of an animal in distress, caught in a hunter's trap or wounded by a predator. It was so achingly familiar to him, and memories of his old life, that in his house in the peaceful Virginia countryside, came flooding back to him in an unexpected torrent. Furious, he pushed the intrusive thoughts from his head to focus on the situation at hand.

“Hannibal! Listen to me,” said Will desperately, ignoring the stitches tugging in his cheek. “You’ve got to wake up. Can you hear me?” Hannibal convulsed in Will’s grip, and Will, lifting his pyjama shirt, he could see redness blooming on the bandages swathing his midsection. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” Muttering, Will pressed a hand to the spot, warm and damp. Under his palm, Hannibal gave a shudder, but did not cease his movements, still seemingly deeply asleep.

Will raised his other arm, and slapped Hannibal across the face with as much strength he could muster, returning the favour from earlier. His battered hand smarted from the blow, and his damaged pectoral prevented him from putting more momentum behind the strike - perhaps it was a good thing. The sound of flesh hitting flesh rang through the room, and the older man’s eyes sprang open, accompanied by a great, harsh gasp. His eyes were wild and unseeing; dark with what seemed like anguish, infused with a profound, helpless rage. It was unlike anything Will had seen in him before; the expression more suited a young boy than a fugitive mass murderer. Hannibal croaked out some unintelligible words, then lunged with alarming suddenness, propelling himself towards Will. With little other choice, Will dug his thumb into the gunshot wound, wringing an agonized choke from the other man and forcing him back down.

“ _Hannibal!_ It’s me, Will!”

Hannibal flinched away like a spooked animal, and Will felt the void that opened up between them like a physical space. Similarly to what he would do when faced with a stray, Will allowed Hannibal some distance; he hated that these were the kinds of associations he was resorting to making. He could see that it took the other man a disconcertingly long time to root himself back in reality, his senses clouded by fever, most likely. He was hardly comforted by Will’s presence, it seemed, visibly retreating back into himself as soon as he was able. Lying on his back, he didn't speak, the only sounds coming from him his quick breaths in and out.

“You reopened your wound,” said Will quietly; Hannibal didn’t acknowledge him. Will added into the emptiness as he got up, “I'm going to get you some water.” Hannibal’s breaths were shallow, his body twitching with pain at every inhalation. At this moment Will fervently wished that they had more painkillers at hand, and it slipped his mind that he would probably make good use out of them as well. They didn't have any morphine or even Advil left, and that was the way things were.

Will had somehow grown accustomed to the discomfort of his injuries that had become his constant companion, surprising himself. If anything, it helped sharpen his wits, always keeping him alert and on edge. He knew his lucidity was vital for both of their survivals - the burden rested heavily on his shoulders, but he wasn't about to complain. He struggled with a mild fever for several days, and his wounds greatly limited his movements, but he found himself recovering faster than expected. He was a fit man, after all. He was soon able to eat and drink properly again, teeth clenched through the discomfort in his ruined and messily self-doctored cheek. He was absurdly fortunate to have emerged in one piece after their encounter with Dolarhyde.

Hannibal, less so. Three years of incarceration hadn't been adequate preparation for the Red Dragon and a plummet into the Atlantic Ocean. On top of the lacerations, bruising and fractured ribs, the bullet wound sapped at his strength; he was still running a fever and would toss and turn in his unconsciousness, often mumbling in languages Will couldn't place. He healed slowly, their less-than-satisfactory accommodations not helping matters. There was only so much agony a human body could endure for a prolonged period of time - ever since the medications had run out, Hannibal had only slept fitfully, and when half-awake, he spent most of his time shaking through the pain, glassy-eyed and delirious. 

More than once Will wondered if Hannibal would survive. He vowed not to lie to himself. Hannibal was no devil, but a mere mortal. He was a fragile being of flesh and blood; he was no longer a young man, and he could just as easily die as anyone else.

Despite Will's concerns, Hannibal tenaciously clung onto life. He continued to live day after day, night after night, persevering through hours where Will had been afraid that he would breathe his last. Will had to acknowledge that, as black as it may be, Hannibal's heart was a powerful organ indeed.

Will came back with the water and fresh supplies, but Hannibal refused to drink. His lips pressing into a thin line, Will set the cup aside and pushed up the shirt to inspect the bullet wound, inflamed and seeping blood under the sodden gauze. Giving Hannibal an unnecessary apologetic murmur, he dabbed and wiped, binding the area up again to the best of his ability. Hannibal's tightly wound muscles never relaxed. When he was done, Will sat in the bed, his back to the headboard. Hannibal had curled around his abdomen on his good side, facing away from Will.

“Hannibal, stay with me.” Will gently laid his hand on Hannibal's shoulder, which was still trembling ever so slightly. The older man unfurled himself and rolled over, looking up at him with exhausted eyes. He was no doubt taking in Will's newly scarred face. Perhaps inwardly chiding Will's lack of surgical finesse, perhaps lamenting the disfiguration. Or perhaps he was pleased at the sight, a testament to Will's rebirth, his baptism in blood - it was impossible to know, as his features were inscrutable.

“I'm here,” he whispered, hoarse, the first words leaving his mouth since waking. Will didn't believe him, but he refrained from saying so.

“You were dreaming,” said Will, occupying himself by folding a scrap of wet cloth to place on Hannibal's warm forehead. "Night terrors."

The other man averted his gaze, and Will observed the way the groove lining his cheekbone caught the lamplight, the same area reddening from the blow Will had just dealt it. Rough stubble covered his jaw, only adding to his dishevelled appearance. Will had yet to grow used to associating Hannibal with such imperfections, among others… His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the scar on his neck next to it moving in time, even that small action laboured. Finally, he gave a tiny nod. Will was unsure if his hesitance stemmed from not wishing to speak of the topic, or simply due to pain and fatigue.

“Are they normally so severe?” Will asked, though he could predict the answer well enough.

Hannibal tilted his head. “No.” He lay on his back, eyes closing for a moment. “Must be my injuries...” Betraying him, his hand was grasping at the sheets, the veins on its back standing out vividly. Will unhesitatingly reached out and took it in his own, exhaling against the throbbing in his chest that greeted the movement. Hannibal was looking at him, or rather past him, his pupils dilated and distant. Will turned Hannibal’s hand over, letting his finger trace the dark line left in the wake of Matthew Brown’s knife on the inside of the pale wrist. The old scar stretching across his belly itched as he did so. The imprints they had left on each other... 

“You never told me.”

“No need to,” said Hannibal. The man was being economical with his words, but hope was surging within Will - this was the most coherent he had seen Hannibal since their tumble from the cliff, and he was almost tempted to breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps everything really was going to be fine. He wished. “Did Dr. Bloom not mention them?” Interrupting Will's thoughts, Hannibal's voice was rueful, but curiously lacking in any real venom. Will attributed it to his weakness.

“No…” Will, blinking, shook his head, images of Hannibal being interrogated about his innermost demons in the asylum springing to mind. If anyone deserved that, it was him, but sympathy still stirred within Will’s gut. Now that he considered it, however, he didn’t recall any mention of night terrors in any of the vast volumes of writings on Hannibal the Cannibal. He wondered whether Alana’s omission of the information was out of courtesy, or to preserve Hannibal's monstrous, irredeemable reputation in the public eye.

“Mhm,” grunted Hannibal, and then began to sit, hauling himself up with his free arm.

“Hannibal,” Will began warningly, letting go of him, but Hannibal merely glared at him stubbornly.

“I don't wish to sleep.”

A brief staring contest later, Will relented. He helped Hannibal prop himself up on the pillows, wincing at both the aches that jabbed at his torso and the heat radiating from Hannibal’s skin. He wanted to think that the fever was less severe than before. Hannibal’s jaw was tight, his neck straining, and he was perfectly still as he regained his composure after the ordeal. Will held him steady, noticing the cold dampness of his shirt.

"How are you feeling?" Will felt vaguely ridiculous asking this, but he had to. "The gunshot..."

"Hurts like the devil, if you must know," said Hannibal flatly, his hand passing over the spot, then tugging at his shirt. “Help me get this off.” Will obliged, peeling the fabric from his skin. He could tell it was an effort for Hannibal to raise his arms, pulling at his ravaged flank more than he could optimally handle. His face contorting, he was chewing his lip to stifle unwanted noises that were coming from his larynx, only partially successful; Will feigned ignorance of it all.

His bare back was shining with perspiration. Will's frown deepened as his eyes fell on the ugly remainder of the circular brand from Muskrat Farm adorning it; he had only found it several days prior, and instantly recognized the the rampant boar of the Verger coat of arms, although its outline was now indistinct from the rest of the knotted scar tissue. The displeasure was palpable in Hannibal's face now as Will ran a finger over it, reminding him of the mark's existence, but he didn't speak. Both men were briefly transported back to that night at the farm, three years ago, although Will’s memory of it was less than complete or reliable. He would ask Hannibal for the details later... Will took his hand away as Hannibal rested his head against the wall.

“I don’t dream often,” he said, his tone almost confessional. “When I do… not much different from yours.”

“For how long?” Again, Will had a fairly informed guess of the answer.

“Ever since Mischa…” Hannibal trailed off, and he didn’t need to finish his sentence. He refused to look Will in the face, lost in his own world like during their first conversation about her in his office, in another lifetime. Will recalled the looming facade of Lecter Castle, and the tombstone with a single small handprint upon it, red against grey... Wordlessly, Will pulled the blanket over Hannibal’s front, and he wrapped himself in it like a child, clearly craving the warmth. Will was ever so slightly surprised when Hannibal leaned on him, laying his head on his shoulder.

He let Will hold his hand again, their fingers entwining autonomously. “I’m sorry, Hannibal.”

“It’s fine.” The statement was almost comically absurd to Will.

“Are you okay?” Will handed him the cup of water from the bedside, and this time he accepted it. He took longer than needed to drink, his movements slow and deliberate.

“I've lost everything once already, Will,” said Hannibal at last. “I… I fear, on occasion, that events will repeat themselves.” As he spoke, his grip on Will tightened almost imperceptibly; Will could detect it with little effort, just as he could acutely sense the quiet distress emanating from the other man. _Fear_. Not long ago Will would have found it difficult to believe that there was anything in existence that frightened Hannibal, but evidently it was a mistaken notion. The monster’s heart beat just as violently as any human being's. Merely watching him sleep had been ample proof.

“Well, that's what it's like to love, isn't it,” replied Will, quiet. A curious look passed over Hannibal’s face, as if he was about to make a counterargument, but in the end he closed his mouth once more. Will took it as agreement. It wasn’t often he had the last word in their many conversations. “You’re just going to have to take the risk.”

“Mhm,” Hannibal hummed, ponderous.

“But,” added Will, “you can be damned sure that I won’t be going anywhere. Not without you.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Where would I go, anyway? I have no place left.”

A wan smile ghosted over Hannibal’s lips. “You don’t believe that, do you,” he said, the words resembling a sigh.

Will chose not to answer, instead saying, “Hannibal, you need to rest,” he squeezed his hand. “It's not like you to worry.”

Hannibal raised a tired eyebrow. “You attempting to kill us both hardly helped dampen my anxieties, Will.” The sentence lacked bite, but it made Will wince nevertheless.

“Touché.”

Hannibal closed his eyes. “I cannot predict you. Perhaps you'll try again.”

“We both know neither of us will survive without the other. So, it’s my job to keep you alive, now.”

“For my sake, or yours?” Was that hurt in his voice?

“Yours and mine,” said Will firmly. “Hannibal. I want to spend - I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Promise me you'll pull through.”

“Living together has a certain appeal over death, does it not?” Hannibal drew his face away, his dark irises suddenly penetrating and overly bright. There was a faint anticipation dancing in his eyes, but it was mingled with a reservedness that Will was not used to seeing from him. There was a small thrill that leaped into Will's throat at this, for he knew it was he who wrought such changes on Hannibal.

“Look, I'm sorry. I really am. I regret what I did.” _And by not leaving you for dead, I've made my decision._

Hannibal sustained the silence for several moments before saying simply, “I know.” It was not an explicit show of forgiveness, Will thought, but it was a start.

“I'm going to protect us. I promise to not let anything happen.” Without waiting for a response, Will put his good arm around Hannibal's blanketed shoulders to draw him close, and the other man offered no resistance, his cropped hair brushing Will's cheek. The tension was mostly gone from his body and his breathing more or less regular. "Do you want breakfast?" Will asked, despite having no idea what time it was.

"No," said Hannibal, not unkindly, his breath tickling Will's neck.

Will snorted, "What, intimidated by my cooking?" This was a gross exaggeration. He had been largely living on non-perishable food items that would make Hannibal balk; perhaps it would be wise to take the opportunity to make arrangements to procure fresh food. _For Hannibal, if anything. Pretentious bastard probably won't eat anything from a can if he can help it_.

"Most definitely." Warmth pooled in Will's chest when he felt the smile steal over Hannibal's lips, if only for a split second. However, Will didn't miss the soft sound of pain that escaped the other man soon after, and it took heroic effort for him to bite back another inquiry of concern.

“If you're not going to eat, you should at least get some sleep,” murmured Will instead, reaching to switch off the lamp. This time, Hannibal didn't protest, doing as he was told - he was no doubt already exhausted. Leaning heavily into Will, he soon fell into a quiet slumber. Will stayed awake, giddy with sweet relief, listening to the harmony of their beating hearts in the dark. All else was silent, as if the universe was watching, waiting. Fugitives Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter, and former FBI Special Agent Will Graham. It was just the two of them, the entire world their enemy - but there was no fear in Will, not any more. Being in Hannibal's presence for so long had all but melted it away. He and Hannibal had survived each other, and they had survived the Dragon. And now, Hannibal would live - they would both live. They were the least deserving in the world to do so, perhaps, but that was the hand fate had dealt them.

 _God is fantastic,_ Will thought with a smile that made his face twinge.

For the rest of the night, Hannibal had no more nightmares, as far as Will could tell. 


End file.
